Chapter 3: Woman's Work

Riza Hawkeye was twelve years old. Nearly thirteen, but not quite. She knew she looked older, because although she was small she was well-developed for her age. The short hair, too, added a year or two to her appearance, as childish pigtails or pretty little plaits never would have. She dressed like an older girl, for her clothes had been made in such a way as to conserve cloth, and fashionable women wore more snugly fitted skirts than did children. Surely she looked fourteen. Maybe even fifteen. And yet, wherever she went the same comment was made: "You're too young!"

Riza had thought that it would be easy to find work, especially in a big city like Central. She was a good hard worker, and she knew she was intelligent because she had her school diploma, which most girls didn't get until they were sixteen or even seventeen. She was quiet and respectful, and she knew how to do as she was told. She had certainly not expected to find a high-paying job, or a prestigious one, but she had certainly expected to find something.

It had seemed most sensible to start the search near her lodgings. So she had arisen one morning as early as she could – which considering that Mr. Mustang always visited her shortly after two o'clock was not especially early. She dressed in the best of her tatty garments: her black skirt, a white blouse, and the warm cardigan that had been a gift from her dear friend Benjamin Hughes. She washed her face in the water closet downstairs, which she shared with the family who rented the corner room below her, and the three students who occupied the other garret closets. Satisfied that at least she did not look like the rag-picker's child, she had descended into the street.

Some girls worked in shops, and so that was what she tried first. She tried a butcher shop, and a little bookstore, and several pawnbrokers (a business that thrived in the slums of Central). Each time, she was told that they didn't need help and anyway she was too young.

She knew that some girls worked as apprentices to seamstresses or dressmakers. Riza couldn't sew well, apart from a little mending – she couldn't even darn stockings. She was willing to learn, however, and that was what she told the ones she visited. Most of them sent her impatiently away. One elderly tailor laughed in her face. At the last one she visited, one of the journeywomen followed her into the street and gave her a fifty-sens piece and a sorrowful pat on the head. Riza bristled at the act of charity, but practicality won out over pride. She bought a fifteen-sens loaf of three-day-old bread, and saved the rest of the money to turn over to Mr. Mustang. He told her to keep it and use it for food on the days when he could not bring enough for her.

Next Riza tried bakeries, to see if any of them wanted a capable girl to wash dishes or sweep floors. Then she went to one or two restaurants, but it soon became obvious that such places employed boys, not girls. By the end of her third week in Central, Riza was weary, discouraged, and despairing of ever finding work.

Mr. Mustang did his best to help, but he could not come to help her during the day, and in any case he was almost as lost as she was. His experience with job-hunting was limited: he had done the same thing that she had, but with more success, for he was not only older but also male. Still, he managed to get a little advice from some of the other cadets (though, he promised, without telling them the reason for his questions), and came one Monday night – or rather, Tuesday morning – with a copy of the Central Gazette.

Educated Girl wanted, one advertisement read. Strong literacy skills a Must. Dictation, secretarial work, Light cleaning. Shorthand skill Required.

Riza didn't know shorthand.

Notary Public requires polite, professional Female for secretarial duties. Independent work Ethic a must. Training provided in Shorthand and typing. Those under 21 Need Not Apply.

Riza might pass for fifteen, but no one would take her for twenty-one.

Clerk required. School diploma an asset. Courteous and Quiet person sought. Book work and Standard Calculations, some contact with Public.

That seemed perfect, but when Riza made the three-mile trip to the other side of the river, she was told quite unkindly that they were looking for a man.

Nursemaid and junior Governess sought for Colonel's children, aged 1, 3 and 6. Duties include Assistance with Childcare Duties, maintenance of Nursery and elementary instruction in Reading and Mathematics. References of Character a necessity.

Riza had no references, of course, and though Mr. Mustang had offered to write one for her, she had declined. The nature of their association had to remain a secret, for her protection and for the sake of his reputation. They could not risk it for something as minor as a job.

Junior governess needed for Supplementing formal education at Zethbridge Finishing School. Two charming Girls, aged 8 and 12, requiring special tutelage in History, Geography and Grammar.

Mr. Mustang was confident that Riza had the discipline and knowledge base required, but she was apprehensive: she was the same age as the elder girl!

Nursemaid required for Adorable baby Boy of 7 months. General nursery duties to be undertaken. Responsible, polite and Well-Deported girl needed.

Riza responded to that advertisement but of course the parents, a young lieutenant and his wife, wanted someone who was... well... older. Still, Riza got a nice cup of tea, and the lady gave her money to take the streetcar back to the tenement.

Young girl sought as Companion and Nursemaid to exquisite seven-year-old Heiress. Successful candidate will work under Supervision of qualified Nanny and Governess. Primary duties include Entertainment and Encouragement of charge. Wages competitive, Lodgings and Meals provided.

That sounded lovely, and since they wanted a "companion" and not a "nursemaid", they might not mind Riza's youth. Mr. Mustang agreed that it seemed like a good placement. The address in the advertisement was for an estate on the edge of town, and Mr. Mustang wanted her to wait until Sunday so that he could escort her. Riza, however, did not want to look as if she needed such supervision. She thanked him politely, but decided to go by herself.

On Thursday afternoon, she squandered fifty sens on the four streetcar rides needed to reach the northwest side of the city. She watched in wonder as the houses grew more and more opulent, and the gardens progressively more exquisite. At last, she reached the end of the rails, where the suburbs gave way to the broad acreages of the wealthiest of Central's citizens. Riza walked along demure lanes lined with meticulously tended hedges and elegant oak trees, past enormous homes surrounded by manicured lawns. The further she went, the larger and more opulent the estates grew... and the more uncomfortable Riza grew.

When she came at last to the gates of the vast grange listed in the newspaper, her heart stopped. It was the most magnificent property she had yet seen. A high stone wall encircled the land, with a mammoth gate of exquisitely wrought iron opening upon the long paved drive. She clutched one of the gate-rails, and peered through at the gardens. The beds were overflowing with exotic and elegant flowers, the shrubs were shaped into animals and sculptures. There was a large fountain, spraying high into the air. Near it stood a marble statue of a man in military garb, so carefully shaped that Riza fancied she could see muscles rippling beneath the "cloth" of the coat. The house itself was larger than any of the others she had passed, with columns and windows and half a dozen chimneys. Riza gaped at it, unable to move or to speak.

Then she realized that there was a man sitting on one of the ornately carved marble benches near the gate. He was the largest human she had ever seen, with a big barrel chest and a thick bull neck. He was almost bald, and he had a lavish blonde moustache. He had been reading a book that Riza thought she recognized from her late father's collection of alchemy texts – but when he saw her, he looked up. When he spoke, his voice was deep and lyrical, reverberating overpoweringly through the air.

"Well, now!" he thundered. "Are you applying for the post of playmate for my little sister? The tradition of engaging—"

Riza did not hear any more, for she turned heel and fled, frightened by the large man, but even more so by the grandeur of the house. She could not work in such a place. She could not imagine being the "companion" of the kind of heiress who lived there. Shabby little Riza Hawkeye, a penniless refugee from the eastern countryside... she had no place in such a world.

She had money for the streetcar, but now that she knew she had yet again failed to find work Riza could not justify the expense. So she walked, all the way back through the presidential district, down into the core of the city, across the river and back to the slums. By that time, it was after dark, and she was shaking with cold. The streets in this poor quarter were busy even at this late hour, but with the least savoury sort of people. Riza almost tripped over an opium-eater, lying in the gutter on a street corner as he rode the narcotic high of his latest fix. A scantily-clad woman stepped hopefully forward, for a moment taking Riza, with her plain clothes and her short hair, for a young man who might have put a little business her way. Riza shivered, hugging herself as she hurried on.

She was two blocks from her tenement building when she heard someone cough behind her. Riza tried to keep walking, but a strong arm seized her elbow.

"Where're you going, girly?" a gravelly voice demanded.

"H-home," Riza said, her pulse quickening and her instincts screaming. She was in danger! She had to get away! This man was dangerous.

"Oh, yeah? Mother lookin' for you? Father waitin' for his little girl?" the stranger cooed, pulling her backwards against his chest. His other arm snaked around her front, clutching at her stomach. "Or maybe there in't anybody, hmm? You know what I think, girly? I think you're alone in the world!"

"I'm not... I'm not!" Riza sputtered, trying to wrench away. The man caught her more tightly, and one hand crept up to grab her breast.

Riza panicked. He shouldn't touch her there! It was private! He shouldn't touch her there! What did he want with her? She strained against the strong arms, gasping in the stink of liquor and cheap tobacco. The man only held more tightly, pinning her arms at her sides. He didn't have control of her legs, however, and Riza turned around so that her face was pressed against his stinking jacket. The man seemed to interpret this as some sign of consent, for he snuffled lecherously into her hair.

"There, now, told you so!" he grunted, clawing at her back.

Riza slipped her leg between his, and he exhaled heavily against her. Then, as hard and as quick as she could, she raised her knee. With a howl of anguish, the man fell back, staggering away from her.

"You leave me alone!" Riza shouted.

"Y'little bitch..." the man snarled, his voice several semitones higher than before. He tried to stumble forward, but pain and drunkenness got the better of him, and he fell to the pavement.

Riza waited for no further prompting. She turned and fled, her poorly-shod feet striking the pavement again and again as she flew around the corner and up the street to her own door. She nearly wrenched it from its hinges as she fell into the dingy corridor, panting while her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. She clutched at the threadbare carpet, trying desperately to calm down.

"You are all right?"

Riza stiffened. The low voice that spoke to her in broken Amestrian accented thickly with Xingese was familiar: her landlady.

"Chibi, you are all right? So late: out after dark?"

The old lady squatted down with a soft grunt, and put a hand on Riza's shoulder. She cocked her head to one side. "You are all right?" she repeated.

Riza looked up, fixing her large eyes on the landlady's narrow ones. She tried to compose her features, but it was no use. Her lower lip quivered, her chest palpitated, and before she realized what was happening, she burst into tears. Somehow – afterwards she could not remember the details – she fell forward into the old woman's arms. The landlady held her close, rocking her and muttering incoherent syllables of Xingese. Then suddenly Riza was in the dank parlour, sipping green tea from a cup without a handle, and watching as the woman prepared cucumber sandwiches with a rusty knife. The old woman did not speak, except to urge Riza to eat, and when the sandwiches were gone she wiped Riza's cheeks with a grubby handkerchief, reminded her that the rent was due in a week's time, and sent her up the stairs.

Riza undressed, washed her face and her underarms, and then prepared herself for Mr. Mustang's visit, though her fingers trembled and her mind kept straying back to the horrible encounter in the street. She couldn't think about it. She couldn't bear to think about it. She had escaped; that was all that was important. She was safe. She was safe. She was.

discidium

Roy leaned upon the doorpost for a moment before entering the tenement building. It had been a long, weary day, and he wanted to crawl back to the Academy and collapse into his cot, but the nightly appointment had to be kept. He had to keep trying, and anyway, he had Riza's food under his arm.

No sooner had he stepped into the corridor than the old Xingese woman appeared in the corridor. Roy doffed his cap.

"Good evening, Mrs. Leung," he said courteously, digging out the coins he owed her.

Instead of taking the money and backing away, she moved into the hall so that her squat body blocked his way. "No," she said.

"What?" Roy breathed. "I always..."

"No, I say. Not this night. Go away." She thrust out her lip so that she very nearly lost her plug of snuff.

"Why not?" Roy asked. "I need to see her."

The woman shook her head. "No! She have bad night. You leave her sleep. Go somewhere else."

"A bad night?" Roy's heart leapt to his throat and he felt suddenly nauseated. What had happened? Riza had intended to answer that advertisement today, he knew. Had she run into trouble? Was she hurt? Upset? "I have to see her."

He pushed past the landlady, making good use of his new military muscles. She grabbed his elbow, but he tore away.

"I have to make sure she's all right!" he snapped, and then without further argument bolted up the stairs.

To his surprise the landlady did not follow, and when he turned at the landing he saw her looking up at him, strangely pensive.

Roy reached the top floor, and rapped softly at Riza's door. There was no answer. He knocked again, calling her name softly. When there was still no reply, Roy pushed the door gently open and slipped inside.

The room was dark, and the heater unlit. By the dim light filtering in through the filthy window, he could see Riza, curled up on the bed. She was dressed for their nightly examination, but she was fast asleep, and there were grubby tear-tracks on her cheeks. Roy closed the door and drew the bolt, then stepped forward and reached out.

He hesitated for a moment, not sure that he had any right to touch her like this, while she slept. Then he gave in and brushed a damp tendril of hair away from her left eye. Riza stirred in her sleep, and murmured something inaudible. Roy drew the coverlet over her, not wanting to rouse her. It seemed that neither of them were in any state to be about their usual business tonight. Riza's eyelids fluttered, and suddenly two carmine orbs were staring up at him.

"Mr. Mustang..." she breathed.

He hated it when she used that absurd honorific. It made them seem like strangers, not people who had grown up together and should have been close as siblings. Still, it seemed to comfort her to keep him at a distance, and it didn't really matter what she called him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly. "I... I brought your supper."

She smiled almost imperceptibly. "Thank you."

"Mrs. Leung said you had a bad day. What happened?"

Riza shivered convulsively and sat up, pulling the blanket around herself. "Nothing," she said. "N-nothing at all. I'm just tired."

She was tired and she had been weeping, but Roy did not want to shame her by pointing that out. He tried to smile. "I was just leaving," he said. "I'm tired, too, and I don't think I'll have any luck tonight."

"No!" Riza gasped, reaching out and seizing the sleeve of his shabby suit jacket. "No, you have to! If... if you don't tonight..." A tremor wracked her slender frame. "I... I might never get up the courage... you... I want to do it tonight."

Roy gawked a little, and then nodded. "All right," he said softly. "I'll just... do you want to eat first?"

Riza shook her head. "Thank you, I'm not hungry," she murmured. Then she removed her shirt and settled on her stomach. "Can you see it, Mr. Mustang?"

"Yes," Roy sighed, sitting down next to her. Cautiously, he put a hand on her arm. A fine tremor was still coursing through her, but his touch seemed to soothe it. She slowly began to relax, but she did not fall asleep that night.